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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/30064149">Interlude</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/fineandwittie/pseuds/fineandwittie'>fineandwittie</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Building A Dream [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Last Kingdom (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Epistolary, Gen, Interlude, Letters, M/M, steapa returns to winchester, this happens between the break between England Is All and the second part</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 17:47:33</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,152</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/30064149</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/fineandwittie/pseuds/fineandwittie</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Steapa returns to Winchester from the north with a letter from Uhtred.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Alfred the Great &amp; Uhtred of Bebbanburg, Alfred the Great/Uhtred of Bebbanburg</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Building A Dream [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2209881</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>There is a time jump between part one and part two. this happens near the middle of that time jump.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Alfred had been told often that time is a great healer, that it closes wounds and blurs faces, and mostly Alfred knew it to be true. But only if the wound is clean. If its edges are ragged and it is infected with some overwhelming emotion that cannot be purged, than time is no use in its cure.</p><p>So when, not three months after Alfred had sent him north is defense of Uhtred and Aethelflaed, Steapa returned baring both news and a letter written in a clumsy hand, Alfred was not surprised to find that the wound that Uhtred’s going had left in him bled anew. The memory of Uhtred’s face, of his clear blue eyes and heavy mouth, of the scars on his temple and the sparseness of his goatee, had not dimmed or faded.</p><p>Alfred tucked away the letter to read in the privacy of his rooms and listened eager to Steapa’s report. He brought good news of victory at Bebbenburg and of Aelfic, Uhtred’s villainous uncle, dying slowly at Uhtred’s hand. Fitting for a traitor and a thief, Alfred thought with a nod. Steapa spoke of the alliance between the Brothers Ragnarson and of Brida’s discontentment that her man was clearly subordinate to his little brother. He even spoke freely of Aethelflaed, who was still living as Eadric, Uhtred’s bastard son, when Steapa came south.</p><p>“And of Uhtred himself? Is he content to finally have reclaimed his home?” Alfred asks, not embarrassed even thought Steapa has obviously heard the rumors.</p><p>Steapa’s face went tight and he dropped his eyes to the floor. Alfred felt a cold chill run down his spine. “There is a change in him, Lord. He is…cold in a way I have never seen. He does not act himself.” When Alfred pressed for details, Steapa shrugged and looked back up. “He no longer smiles or laughs. He spends less time with his people and more alone, walking the ramparts. The peasants and the servants whisper that it is like the old Lord Uhtred returned to them. Better than Aelfic, by all accounts, but not the man that I know. Not the man who won over the people at Coccham. I cannot explain it better for I do not understand it. I know that his people are worried about him: Finan and his wife and his brother, the nun and Father Beocca.”</p><p>Alfred nodded, worry churning in his guts. Had he been wrong to send Uhtred north? Was taking Bebbenburg like this the thing that would extinguish his childish charms? What would Uhtred be without his insolence and dimpled grin and warmth? Who would he be? Alfred could not imagine and realized immediately that he did not wish to try. </p><p>He nodded, dismissing Steapa so he could rest after the long journey, and retreated to his chambers to read whatever it was the Uhtred wished to tell him.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Alfred, King of Saxons,</p><p>Beocca spoke true when he said I wrote a poor hand, which is why my update on our progress was written by the good father. But I have tried to ensure that this letter is as legible as possible. It has been a very long time since I have written more than a few words at a time, so forgive the childish attempt. Like you, I could not allow the opportunity pass.</p><p>Your letter was useful in its warning about both Cnut and Bloodhair. Both have been dealt with before they could cause harm.</p><p>It was also one of the greatest blows I have been dealt in my life. I was unprepared and therefore unprotected in the face of your most dangerous weapon. I am bitter about it. I am hurt by it. I am drowning in it. I will remain so, likely, until we meet again. </p><p>You will think that I am too dramatic. I am not. I am often unprepared in the face of your honesty, which you withhold from me and offer only when you wish for me to complete some task for you. I would like to believe that this time is no different. That your letter was written to ensure that I would fulfill my promise to carry out our plans.</p><p>But you know me better than to think that I would break my oath to you and so such a manipulation would be pointless and a waste of paper. I know you better than to think that any action you take is pointless.</p><p>So I am left with only the most unlikely explanation: that you did a wholly selfish thing. That you wrote that letter to tell me that you loved me when you knew that I could not reply. By doing so, you guaranteed that you would be spared from my response. </p><p>That was stupid. It was also unnecessary and painful. </p><p>Do you truly know me so little? You told me once, not so long ago, that you did not. I thought you were lying, but I suppose I was wrong. </p><p>I will not tell you that I think of you fondly or at all. I will not tell you that I love you in return. This will likely give you pain. I will not apologize for that.</p><p>What I will say is this:</p><p>There is a concept in Irland: shíorghrá. It is a love so deep and vast that nothing can destroy it. It is a connection that is so strong that neither death or distance can diminish it. A binding of two souls in this life and the next, wherever those souls may go.</p><p>What I will say is this:</p><p>There is a lake inside my soul, dark with depth and so wide that even I do not know the outer reaches of it. I have not explored the far shores of this lake. I cannot fathom them. I am not even certain they exist. Such is its vastness. Often, in quiet moments, I find myself thinking about this lake. When I examine it, when I stare down into its depths, I hear the echo of a voice. It is a crisp, Saxon voice whispering across the surface, asking me to give one last promise.</p><p>I want you to know that I will not give you one last promise. I refuse to believe that we shall never meet again. You will not die. Your God will not take you from this world before your work is done. I will not die. The gods are certainly cruel, but I can feel the tangle of the spinners’ threads drawing me forward and they will not cut those threads until my job is done. </p><p>England is not ours yet.</p><p>We have much work still to do. </p><p>And so, we will do it. And when I see you next, that is when I shall tell you that which you ache to hear. But not before.</p><p>Uhtred, Lord of Bebbenburg</p>
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